


All Who Remain

by pantykinksam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dead Dean, Depressed Sam, Drunk Sam, Dying Sam, M/M, Suicidal Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4573227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantykinksam/pseuds/pantykinksam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was only a few feet away from his brother, but he couldn’t bring himself to back away or to move closer. Hell, he couldn’t bring himself to move much at all, like his legs were fucking broken, and every sight in his vision blurred, aside from the boy on the bed, still sporting jeans and Sam’s favorite of all Dean’s shirts, now wrecked with blood and gore, every fiber caked with it. Sam took another swig. He was really, /really/, tired of crying. When Sam cried, /really/ cried, there was a rawness to it, the pain of it all exposed like an open wound. His fist was mottled red and splintered from the tight grip on the chair, clutching it for support as his body shook with every sob, convulsing in his seat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Who Remain

**Author's Note:**

> Word of advice: DOn't read when you're in a good mood. Trust me. This is a heartwrecker.

He was beautiful like that, eyes closed and arms at his side, chin up towards the ceiling. Sam’s smile was faint, but there, even if his eyes were red and bloodshot, blinking briny tears away as he took another swig from his bottle. He choked on air, sputtering and wheezing, his entire body trembling violently, each inhale ragged and tortured, desparate to feed his lungs and remember to fucking breathe, cause Jesus he could barely think right then, and breathing wasn’t his only problem. He was only a few feet away from his brother, but he couldn’t bring himself to back away or to move closer. Hell, he couldn’t bring himself to move much at all, like his legs were fucking broken, and every sight in his vision blurred, aside from the boy on the bed, still sporting jeans and Sam’s favorite of all Dean’s shirts, now wrecked with blood and gore, every fiber caked with it.

Sam took another swig. He was really, /really/, tired of crying. When Sam cried, /really/ cried, there was a rawness to it, the pain of it all exposed like an open wound. His fist was mottled red and splintered from the tight grip on the chair, clutching it for support as his body shook with every sob, convulsing in his seat. His stubbled chin traced with tear tracks, eyelashes clumped and wet like he’d taken a swim, Sam would’ve pitied any guy in his shoes, who looked the way he did right now, if it wasn’t who he saw in the mirror. Shit, if Dean saw him, his usual pale face pink to the tip of his nose, the bags under his eyes swelling with every tear, unshaven and an altogether wreck, he’d fuckin’ laugh at him. It was pretty pathetic, he knew. Took another swig from his flask, but it was empty. He didn’t remember taking that last sip.

Sam could feel himself unraveling, every thread attached to his brother, every happy memory worth holding onto lay as strings at his feet. This was it this time, and he knew Dean had known. There was no going back after this, no turning things right again. Dean was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. Not now, not ever. There was nothing left here, nobody to hold onto, no reason to move. This wasn’t something Sam wanted to live through. He didn’t /ask/ for this. The vodka was all that was left, and Sam saved it for last for a reason. He’d fall to the floor if the floorboards weren’t soaked with vomit, because it was hard to hold in half his weight in alcohol for more than five minutes, no matter his alcohol tolerance.

Fuck, was it really only 8 am? Last night was a fucking blur. Shit, his head hurt. Felt like it was being shredded from the inside out, actually, and it blotted out thought, which in Sam’s case, seemed like a pretty good deal. Consciousness was hardly an option at this point, as he hazed in and out of consciousness, his hand on the chair the only thing keeping him upright. He was slipping, and fuckin’ fast too. Might not wake up from this, and wasn’t that the point? Besides, his fucking head hurt so bad, it didn’t seem like a terrible way to go.

Focus, focus. if he fell back, he’d most definitely choke on his own vomit. Probably drown himself in his own bile, and if that’s how it was gonna go, he’d want to lose consciousness first. It didn’t look like it was gonna work out that way, though. The stool wasn’t gonna keep him up when he was thrashing about with every fucking sob. It took him about 20 minutes to crawl up to the bed beside Dean, ‘cause breaks were definitely necessary. When was the last time he’d had any water? It’d been hours since he’d started throwing up, and he’d been up all night with nothing but booze in his system. His throat was burning, but there was no way he was gonna get to the kitchen alive. Wasn’t gonna get anywhere alive, actually. This was the final stretch.

Dean fuckin’ reeked, and the smell of the- his /brother/, not a corpse, could /not/, call his brother a corpse, fuckin’ ever. But jesus, Sam was gonna- too late. His head was spinning too fuckin’ fast for words, and the lack of oxygen was seriously doing a number, struggling to keep his eyes open, eyes on Dean at all times. Vomit filled his throat, rising to the back of his mouth and up over his tongue, and swallowing it really wasn’t going to work this time, neither was turning his head. Plan B, then. Every nerve in his body was working at hyper speed, signalling his brain at a mile a minute, and shit, he was so fucking exhausted he wished it’d just /end/ already. Might as well stop trying. There wasn’t any getting out of this, he knew by them. Sam was starting to wish he picked a different, more appealing way to go then gargling in his vomit in those last five minutes.

Roll, roll, roll, motherfucker, /roll/. He was halfway to the side of the bed, and already gagging and spitting, fighting to get this shit /out/, but it was only for the moment. With the combined oxygen loss and the splitting migraine, he wasn’t gonna stay conscious, and he was gonna puke again, it was just a matter of time. 1...2...3… He steadied his breathing as best he could, heaving and choking on each one, closing his eyes. If he was leaving, he was leaving calm and next to his brother. Took him try after try, but he gave one last kiss to Dean’s cold lips and fell back as a shudder ran through his body, and he was still. When the maid service came in the morning, they’d find them next to each other, cold as a tomb, one stabbed through the heart with a fucking dagger and the other clinging to his rotting waist, eyes closed and looking as dead as the first, cause really Sam died with Dean anyway.


End file.
